


But Maybe You Could Be Her Moon

by LWn29



Category: Hey Arnold!
Genre: Angst, Bisexuality, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Not Canon Compliant, One-Sided Relationship, POV Second Person, Romance, Substitution, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28229328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LWn29/pseuds/LWn29
Summary: There's a girl you love, but she doesn't love you.
Relationships: Helga Pataki/Arnold Shortman, Helga Pataki/Lila Sawyer, Phoebe Heyerdahl/Gerald Johanssen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	But Maybe You Could Be Her Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [a girl who loves you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26269042) by [cakecakecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakecakecake/pseuds/cakecakecake). 



> The Moon's Plea  
> I know I can’t replace the sun that set  
> your sky on fire,  
> my heat will never reach you and I can’t  
> bring back the color to your world,
> 
> but if you let me I could be your moon,  
> the lesser light  
> embracing you in gentle silver beams  
> still bright enough to cut through dark.
> 
> I’ll never ask to be the center of  
> your universe,  
> say the word and I’ll hollow myself out,  
> make space for you to rest your head;
> 
> my pale face will watch over you as you  
> lay dreaming of  
> that star still burning somewhere far from here,  
> embers of the fool who left you behind.
> 
> And what should I be called if not a fool  
> who goes on hoping  
> that my weak glow for nearness might one day  
> eclipse the brilliance of the sun?

There’s a girl you love, but she doesn’t love you. She never lies to you, never says the words back. But she won’t tell you the truth, either. Instead she gives you a guilty smile and a chaste kiss, an unspoken apology for the feelings she can’t return. Which honestly kind of pisses you off, so you kiss her back, deep and long, gaze into her eyes and smile _ever_ so sweetly, as if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. 

What is wrong with you? You’ve always been like this, so fake, so manipulative. So unlike her. You remember the day in the fourth grade when she came to you, practically begging for your role in the school play, how you pretended you didn’t understand why, _taunted_ her, even, by suggesting what you’d already guessed. And for what? Just to watch her squirm? But you couldn’t help yourself – she was so adorable, the lengths she’d go to just for a stage-kiss with the boy she loved. When you think about it, that’s probably where it began. You’d always had a feeling she wasn’t as bad as she seemed, but that impassioned confession of love for your football-headed classmate was the first time you saw, _really saw,_ the beautiful, hot mess of a girl named Helga Pataki. 

And then she’d threatened to strangle you if you ever told anyone her deep, dark secret. As if you ever would. Teasing was one thing, but you would never have crossed that line; you understood her insecurities all too well. Because you wore a mask, too. You smiled for your father when your mother died and when he lost his job, pretended you didn’t resent him for leaning on you, his nine-year-old daughter. You complimented your your classmates, kept your snide comments about their intelligence (or lack thereof) to yourself, because you wanted to fit in at your new school. That was not Helga. She insulted and complained and pushed and shoved, not caring for a moment what anyone else thought of her. Just as long as they they didn’t see behind her snark and her fists to her tender, romantic heart. In that way, she was like your mirror image. Or maybe you were hers: she was _real,_ and you envied her for it. 

And then there was the football-head himself, Arnold. You had been infatuated with him yourself for about a day, when a misunderstanding made you think he liked you-liked you. Then he broke your heart. Only afterward, you realized your feelings for him had been shallow; it wasn’t _him_ you liked, it was the attention, the feeling that you were truly special to someone. So when he changed his mind, you had no trouble rejecting him. In fact, you took pleasure in it: did he really think he could come crawling back, after he’d made you feel so stupid and small? Maybe it wasn’t really his fault, but you couldn’t help feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction when you saw the dejected look on his face.

That was no excuse for leading him on, though. You kept telling yourself you were going to stop, but he was just so _pathetic,_ following you around, offering to carry your books, telling you how _sophisticated_ you were. He fell for the mask, Little Miss Perfect, just like the rest of them. What an idiot. But there was more to it, wasn’t there? Helga. You felt her eyes on you when you were with him, knew she was straining to hear every word that passed between you. At the time, even you hadn’t understood why you wanted to torture her like that – you really _did_ like her. But maybe you’d been jealous. Not over Arnold and not even over Helga, but of the unspoken connection they shared. Arnold may have pined after you, but you weren’t the one he constantly worried over, the one he pestered with unsolicited advice. You noticed long before either of them the affection in his eyes when he looked at her, how casually he touched her arm no matter how many times she snapped at him for it. Like gravity. So you flirted with him to spite them both, and if later you laid awake hating yourself for it, you just closed your eyes and told yourself it was ok, because you were only prolonging the inevitable.

And you were right. Arnold and Helga’s best friends started dating in the seventh grade, which meant that they, too, started spending a lot more time together. Phoebe and Gerald now walked the halls hand in hand, flirting and giggling, while Arnold and Helga followed behind wearing sulky expressions and exchanging the occasional supportive glance. One day you looked over at their cafeteria table to see Gerald leaning toward Phoebe, eyes closed and mouth wide open, as she fed him something from her lunchbox. Helga turned to Arnold, rolled her eyes, and made a gagging motion, and Arnold laughed out loud. Too loud: Gerald and Phoebe whipped their heads around, and Arnold made an apology you couldn’t hear over the cafeteria chatter. He noticed you watching then, and you turned back to your tray, picked at your food. But you couldn’t help glancing over when you heard him laugh again a moment later, wondered what Helga had done this time.

Gerald and Phoebe eventually cooled down as the newness of their relationship wore off, but something had changed with Arnold and Helga. Her bullying of him was no longer really bullying, and he no longer just stood back and took it: now, he played back at her. You remember going to your locker one day, finding Arnold at his about a yard away; Helga leaned against the locker next to him, arms crossed.

“Anyway, Football Head, you’d better not be thinking of asking _me_ to Spring Fling,” she was saying. “Because I’d rather have a root canal.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Arnold replied, “I was actually about to ask you.” 

You focused on dialing your combination, but her expression must’ve been dumbfounded.

“Y-you were?” she asked.

Locker now open, you observed them discreetly through the slits in the door.

“Yeah,” Arnold said, digging into his own locker as he continued, “I figure Gerald and Phoebe will probably want some alone-time, and it might be more fun if we’re together.” He closed his locker and shrugged, as if it were no big deal. “But oh, well.”

You found the book you needed and slowly took it out, then pretended to check your hair in the mirror on the inside of the locker door.

Helga stood up straight as Arnold bent down to put his book in his backpack. “W-wait, Arnold.” she said. “When you put it like that, maybe… Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad? I-I mean, I _guess_ I could do you a favor, just this once.”

Arnold stood and slung his backpack over one shoulder. “Nah, don’t force yourself. I can just ask someone else,” he said. He turned and noticed you then, and called, “Hey, Lila!”

You peeked out and closed the door as Helga turned to look at you, mouth hanging open in panic. Smiling innocently, you glanced back to Arnold, tossed your braid over your shoulder, and said, “Yes, Arnold?”

“I was just wondering if you wanted to go to Spring Fling with me?”

He gave you a conspiratorial wink, letting you know he wasn’t really asking you. You didn’t appreciate being used, but then, who were you to judge? 

“Gee, Arnold, that sounds like just _ever_ so much fun,” you said, “But only if Helga is absolutely _certain_ she doesn’t want to go with you.”

Arnold laughed and said, “As if Helga G. Pataki would ever want go to Spring Fling with me! Right, Helga?” 

He turned back to her, and she looked down at her hands, played with the hem of her shirt. “W-well, uh…” she stammered.

You felt a little sorry for her; apparently, so did Arnold, because after a moment of her hemming and hawing, he said, “C’mon, Helga, if you really want to go, just say so!”

Helga clenched her fists and gritted her teeth, then sighed, muttered something under her breath.

“Huh?” Arnold asked. “What did you say?”

“I said,” Helga began, then reverted to unintelligible mumbling.

“I still can’t hear you, Helga, you need to-”

Helga got in Arnold’s face and nearly yelled, “I said I want to go to Spring Fling with you, Football Head!” She grabbed onto his collar with both hands. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life! I’ve been dreaming, scheming, _obsessing_ over if for the past week and a half, haven’t been able to _think_ of anything else, and if you change your mind now, I swear I’ll punch your lights out, got it?!”

After a beat of silence, Arnold said, “Great, so I’ll pick you up at seven Friday night?” 

“Fine!” Helga said, almost pushing him away. “I mean, fine.” 

The first bell rang, and she continued, “Now come on, you’re gonna make me late for class!”

She stomped ahead, trying to hold onto some shred of dignity, and Arnold hurried to catch up.

“Since when do _you_ care about being on time for class?” he teased, nudging her with his elbow.

“Oh, shut up,” Helga said, then, after a pause, “And quit _smiling_ at me like that, Hair Boy, you’re giving me the creeps!” 

“Sorry, Helga,” Arnold said, the smile still in his voice, and turned his face away from her.

They were so cute it made you sick.


End file.
